


The Seven Man Con

by copperbadge



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal still dreams of the big cons -- but now they have a familiar cast of characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to neifile7 for the beta!

The Burke household is quiet, after the somewhat rowdy meeting earlier that night. The sandwiches have been cleared away, dishes done; Jones and Diana left to get the necessary bugging equipment from the FBI, and Sara has gone home to refine the diction in her voice-emulation software as much as possible.

"Get some good sleep," Neal said. "It's important, before a job."

"I'm computer jockeying," Sara replied. "I could do the actual job in my sleep."

"Still. You'll see," Neal said, and he knew she would. Tomorrow, when they con Bilal into contacting Larssen, she'll feel it. They all will; not just the rush of adrenaline but the hyper-awareness, where everything gets bright and sharp. If you're not on top of your game, you'll get lost in it. Neal knows.

Now if only he could follow his own advice.

He turns over on the narrow guest-bedroom mattress, trying to find a comfortable way to sleep. He's never been able to sleep well the night before a con, especially one where he's singing backup, where he's not in control. He'd much rather be out there harassing Bilal or running Mozzie's jammer, but his role in this job is clear, and there's no use chafing about it. Makes it hard to sleep, is all.

Mozzie's downstairs, sawing logs on the foldaway bed in Peter and Elizabeth's sofa. For once he made no fuss, which Neal is grateful for; after he helped Mozzie onto the mattress, Mozzie grinned wide and said, "Hey, this has great lumbar support!"

Neal used to track Mozzie's paranoid-neurotic upswings and downswings; when he's working a con there's not much that'll bother him, but when he's bored or upset or anxious he'll suddenly develop new and temporary food allergies, behavioral tics, strange habits. (The lactose intolerance thing is real, as is the shellfish allergy. The rest is -- well, it's real in the moment.) Mozzie's doing a lot better now that he's back in a game, any game.

Peter and Elizabeth are sleeping, no doubt, the sleep of the just and morally upright. Poor kids, they really don't know what they're missing. Other than the insomnia, of course.

Burke's Six. He'd said it earlier and he'd known the rightness of it then. This is Peter's crew, Peter's con -- Peter's _sting_ , he corrects himself, with a mental eyeroll in Peter's direction. A six-man job is complex, but Neal and Mozzie have a good bond, and so do all three FBI agents; Sara is quick, and she likes Peter, so there's trust there. Neal thinks maybe she trusts him a little too, now. Just a little. This will be their first con, the six of them, but they're tight. They'll pull it off.

What he couldn't do with a six-man crew like this. They could rule the world.

He's come up with complex heists before, ones that require four people at minimum, but that's the problem with big crews. You don't need it for most jobs -- he can knock over a bank solo and steal a painting with one, possibly two skilled accomplices. Gems just aren't valuable enough to split seven ways. He'd considered hitting a casino, once; Ocean's Eleven is a fun movie but Danny Ocean, in Neal Caffrey's professional opinion, was a hack job. Neal could do it with nine, as long as they were the right nine, and he'd have liked to have proved it.

Six...well. There is one job. It'd be better with seven, but six could make it work.

Neal grins to himself in the dark. Better than functional -- it'd be _fun._

Peter wouldn't be swayed by the take. Jones might, conceivably; he likes con work. Sara likes money and she likes status; she could be bought, especially for her share of a hundred and twenty million dollars. Diana would come in if Peter did, but flipping Peter would be the hardest part of the whole thing.

Oh, but if Peter agreed, that would be the most fun of all.

***

The Cultural Preservation Institute Museum was in Midtown, and unlike some of its near neighbors -- particularly MOMA -- it was an unpretentious building. It had begun as a single brownstone in a row of brownstones and gradually expanded, while around it the rest of the residential neighborhood had slowly transformed into offices and storefronts. The lovely, antique row of facades had been maintained, though the interiors of the brownstones were gutted, renovated, and connected. Starting at the east entrance, you could walk through the CPIM from one building to the next, via a network of narrow hallways adorned with the work of American artists -- some of it paintings, some reproductions, some murals done on commission. The Jackson Pollock hallway was one of the prize exhibits. The CPIM boasted proudly of being the heartbeat of American culture and history, and while it may not have been large, it had a certain prestige.

The New Wing of the CPIM was an ugly, blocky thing, built onto the back of the museum to provide administrative offices. The vault housed in it, so the CPIM said, was the most secure storage unit outside of Fort Knox.

Ten minutes ago, a tall man in a sharp suit had walked up to the vault and casually leaned on the door, tripping the pressure alarm. Now he sat across a large, ornate desk from Dee Palmer, the sharp-eyed curator.

"James Graham," he said, offering her his business card. "Independent security consulting."

"Mr. Graham," she replied, ignoring the card. He dropped it on her desk and sat back. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't swear out a complaint of criminal trespass against you."

"Aw, c'mon, I wasn't doing any harm," he said, grinning. He was just approaching middle age, fit and good looking, no grey in his brown hair; he practically bled confidence.

"I don't think that's a good reason," she replied.

"How about this, then: your security's bad," he shot back, sobering a little. "With no plan and no partner I got all the way to your vault before your boys caught me."

"But they did catch you," she said, leaning on the desk, hands folded.

"Because I let them. I'm not interested in your vault, except in a professional capacity."

"Do tell," she said.

"Honestly? Work's a little thin on the ground," he answered. "I could use a federally-supported contract. I'm stumping for business, and you need my skills."

There was a moment of uncertainty there, and he caught it, but before he could make any use of it she let it fade into professionalism.

"We have a contracted security firm," she said.

"I don't provide rent-a-cops. I'm a consultant. I tell you what's wrong and how to fix it. Call it putting myself out of a job, but..." he shrugged. "There's always someone who needs better protection."

"And why should we hire you?" she asked.

"Experience. I have fifteen years at the FBI under my belt, in fraud and art theft," he said, offering her a second business card, this one with an FBI shield logo on it. She accepted it. "You can call my old boss, Risa Hughes; she'll verify me. I've been consulting independently for three years. I can't give you a list of my clients but I have letters of recommendation."

She set the business card aside and turned back to him.

"Mr. Graham, as ingenious as your pitch has been, we're not interested in a security consult at this time, and we have no budget for it. I understand a salesman like yourself needs...an attention-grabber to pique my interest, so I'll let the trespassing slide, but if I see you back here again I will call the police."

"Think about my offer," he said, rising to leave.

"I already have," she assured him. "Lawrence will see you out."

Lawrence, an enormous, imposing security officer, not only saw James Graham out, he saw him onto the sidewalk and down the block. Graham thanked him, tipped him, and strolled away cheerfully.

Two blocks away, in a small coffeehouse full of dreadful local art, he ordered an espresso and sat across a small cafe table from a dark-haired man reading the newspaper. He nudged a narrow-brimmed fedora to one side and set his espresso down. The man let the paper flop over, giving him a raised eyebrow.

"You can pretend to be disinterested all you want," Peter Burke said, "but I can see you vibrating excitedly from here."

Neal folded the paper and tossed it aside. "So? How'd it go?"

Peter grinned. "She bit. Not hard enough to hire James Graham, but hard enough to think of him if she has...issues with her current security."

"Imagine that," Neal said, beaming.

***

They'd need to wait a few days to put step two in motion. Preferably a week.

Neal stares up at the ceiling, imagining it. Moving through the city like shadows, carrying this secret, making plans; this is his fantasy after all, and while flipping Peter might be fun, in his fantasy nobody has a job, they don't go in to the FBI or chase bad guys. They just sort of...exist in static, for him to play with. Neal hosts a dinner party at June's place; Peter does lunch with Diana and Jones; Mozzie and Elizabeth play parcheesi (Elizabeth makes seven, and really it is better with seven, so Neal has no qualms about dancing her into his little dream). Neal and Sara go to art galleries together, but it's not a dating thing. Well, maybe it's a dating thing, an awkward dating thing, because that's fun, but mostly they just walk close together and Neal points out fakes and reproductions.

He stretches his arms, folding his hands behind his head, studying the little webwork of minute cracks in the guest bedroom ceiling. The room smells like old books and fresh linens, and it feels private, as if it's a whole separate world from the rest of reality. It feels safe, which is odd, because Neal doesn't usually like safe.

***

"On a scale of one to ten, how risky is this?" Peter asked, and Neal batted Peter's hands away from his backpack, because if Peter checked the straps one more time Neal was seriously going to strangle him.

"Wait, is one risky or is ten risky?" Neal asked in reply.

"One is safe. Ten is risky," Peter said, and Neal jerked Sara's pack away before Peter could touch it.

"Low seven," Neal said, pushing Peter out of the room and slamming the door. From the corner, Sara snickered.

"Why do I have to stay home?" Peter demanded, through the door.

"Because you're the mastermind, we've been over this," Neal called back.

"I don't want to be the mastermind!"

Neal opened the door a crack. "Too bad. You had your fun, it's our turn now."

"I don't like it," Peter grumbled.

"Would you rather this be Caffrey's Seven? Because I can stage a coup," Neal said. Peter looked sullen.

"No," he admitted, and then on reflection, "Jesus God, no."

"Thank you," Neal told him, and shut the door. Sara finished pulling on her shoes -- Neal had made a lot of jokes about black spike stilettos, but he couldn't fault her choice of black army surplus combat boots.

"Well?" she asked, standing up, hands on hips.

"You look perfect," Neal said.

"Where's Elizabeth?"

There was a knock on the door. Neal jerked his thumb at it, then went to open it.

"Okay, Jane Bond, are yo....oh," he finished, staring at her.

***

Neal closes his eyes, shakes his head. There's fantasy and then there's _fantasy_ , and he's pretty sure if he mentally dresses Elizabeth in skintight matte black, she will hear his thoughts from across the house and come smother him with a pillow (or Peter will). Rewind, erase, fast forward.

***

Mozzie was in a rented SUV down the street, and Diana and Sara were already there as well, doing a final inventory, when Neal stopped Elizabeth and Jones at the back door of the Burke house.

"Remember," he said, "this has to look like a one-man show. If your partner's working, you shouldn't be. Once I'm on the move, the two of you need to sit on your hands. If something goes wrong, alert us over the radio but don't act until I tell you, or until Peter does. Peter?" he asked.

"Yep," Peter replied, voice coming down the radio in Neal's ear and from across the room simultaneously. There were three laptops sitting in front of him on the coffee table: one with all the recon data up on the screen, the other two still dark, awaiting their turn. Neal gave him a nod. Peter nodded back, looking nervous, and the three of them disappeared out the door.

There were two ways into the CPI Museum's administrative offices: a door activated by keycard, set in the rear, or through the museum, which had floor pressure-sensors that could only be disabled from the administrative offices themselves. They knew, thanks to some daring recon Mozzie did, that all the camera surveillance was digital, fed through a server before it went back out to the monitors. Sara had a hardware patch that would freeze the feed before it got recorded by the server, but it had to be plugged into the server itself. Once the right feeds were frozen, it'd be showtime for Neal.

Jones, unaccountably, seemed more nervous than Elizabeth, who narrated quietly as if she'd been breaking into buildings her whole life. Faking a keycard RFID signature wasn't hard, and that got them into the offices; from there it was just a matter of dodging two cameras until they got to the server room -- easily done. Neal, whose dark turtleneck and black jeans weren't exactly going to make him stand out in New York, loitered nearby, carefully out of range of any exterior surveillance.

"Okay," Jones said into the radio. "Cameras one through forty five are going down now. This better work, Sara."

"Relax, it'll work," Sara assured him. Neal could see her sitting in the SUV, but only as a shadow. "Elizabeth, reroute the feed."

"Yep, got it," Elizabeth said. "Peter, sweetie?"

"Hang on, this stupid..." Peter sounded frustrated. He wasn't big on technology. Neal bit his tongue. "Okay. I can see like a million tiny screens. Honey, throw something past a camera."

Neal heard a couple of laughs on the radio, and then a triumphant _Ha!_ from Peter.

"Live feed totally saw that," Peter said. "Dead feed to the security monitors looks the same. We're in. Neal, show's all yours."

Neal took a deep breath. "Okay. Elizabeth, Jones, this is going to be a twenty-minute run, just like we practiced. I want you alert the whole time. The second I give you the go sign, I want you running. Got it?"

"Loud and clear," Jones replied.

"Elizabeth?"

"Ready," she said.

"Diana and Sara?"

"Already on our way," Diana answered.

"Let me know when you're in position," Neal said, still walking casually towards the east entrance of the museum. The doors on this end were bolted, but it only took about thirty seconds to pick the lock. The foyer had a camera -- now nonfunctional -- but no pressure plates; Neal stepped inside, slid up against the wall where he wouldn't be seen from the street, and pulled his mask over his face. He gave the camera a little wave.

"Don't get cocky, Neal," Peter said.

"Cocky," Neal said, "is what I'm all about."

"Halfway to the vault," Sara said. "Boys, stop flirting."

"Well, I could flirt with you instead, if you want," Neal answered, pushing the inner door open and immediately stepping up onto a pedestal of one of the decorative pillars inside. The door swung shut; Neal hung there, getting his bearings, and then swarmed up the pillar effortlessly. From there it was a two-foot leap to the network of pipes hanging in the ceiling. The fire suppression system had been upgraded since the museum's early days, but they hadn't cleared away the sprinklers -- something about preserving the building's integrity, Neal had stopped listening to the architectural historian he was pumping for information at that point. The sprinkler pipes creaked, but there wasn't any water in them; even if he knocked against one of the sprinklers, nothing would happen.

"Did anyone ever tell you, you make sex noises when you're working?" Sara asked.

"No chatter on the line," Neal grunted.

"Thanks, now that's all I can hear," Peter sighed.

"And we're at the vault," Diana interrupted pointedly.

"Peter, back to you," Neal said, huffing a little as he went hand-after-hand along the pipes.

"Peter, are you sure nobody can see us? Because it's pretty brightly lit in here," Diana said.

"I'm looking at the camera feeds," Peter said. "I promise, I'm the only one who can -- " he stopped, snickering.

"Did you just flip off my husband?" Elizabeth asked.

"Blew him a kiss," Diana answered smugly. Neal reached the end of the first room and dropped down to dangle by his fingertips in the doorway, then swung sideways onto another column and started the whole process over.

"We're starting work," Sara said.

It took Neal another ten minutes to get to the secure room where the Equinox was kept, while Sara and Diana quietly went about their business near the vault. He dangled upside-down from the sprinkler pipes while he picked the lock; he swung the door open and used its leverage to shove himself onto another column.

There were no sprinklers here, but there were a couple of benches; he jumped from the column to a bench and settled down, crosslegged, sighing with relief as he stretched his aching arms.

"I'm in position," he said.

"We need two more minutes," Diana answered.

Neal stayed still on the bench, studying the Equinox on its little velvet mount. Even in low light, encased in a tube of bulletproof glass that ran floor to ceiling, it sparkled. The biggest diamond ever found in the United States, the most beautiful oval-cut forty-one carat carbonado, deeply hued, almost opaque black. Some people thought carbonado diamonds came from the stars, from asteroid impacts with Earth, and Neal was willing to believe it; the Equinox was ethereally lovely. He'd always wanted to steal it. There it was, six feet away. Waiting for him.

"Boss, are you getting anything?" Diana asked.

"Video just came up," Peter said. Neal pictured him, sitting at the coffee table, staring at the lit-up screen of the third laptop. "I have eyes all over the place in there."

"Hot," Diana said, the amusement evident in her voice. "You should have five views."

"Yep -- can you mess with camera four at all?" Peter asked. "Left -- left -- there," he said, just as a squeal cut over their headsets. Neal heard Elizabeth let out a startled _eep!_

"Sorry," Sara said, as it died down. "Feedback from my radio. Peter, you should have audio now too."

"Testing," Peter said, and Neal heard two swift clicks; Diana and Sara turning off the microphone feeds on their radios. After a second, Peter's voice came back warm and pleased. "Yep, I hear you loud and clear. Neal, it's yours."

"Elizabeth, cut the transmitter to Peter's computer," Neal said. He heard a sharp breath from her as she tugged it free.

"Done."

"Feed's dead," Peter said.

"Diana, Sara, Elizabeth, get clear," Neal ordered.

There were rustling noises, and the sound of soft breathing; Neal held his own breath until he heard Mozzie say, "Charlie's Angels have landed."

"Call us that again and I'll kick your ass," Diana said in the background.

"Everybody but Peter and Jones, turn your mics off," Neal said. "Jones, check?"

"Loud and clear," Jones replied.

"And I read. Peter?"

"I'm here," Peter said.

"I read," Neal repeated. "Jones, I'm in the blind spot. On my mark you pull that thing and run. The minute you're out the door, give me the cue."

There was a tense moment where all they could hear was Jones's breath and his footsteps; there was a soft thunk, a second one, and Jones said, "I'm clear."

"Neal," Peter said. "Be careful."

"Careful's no fun," Neal answered, and stepped off the bench onto the floor.

Alarms went more or less immediately, but Neal ignored them; he had, by his count, twenty seconds before security would reach the access doors to the museum, and another fifteen seconds after that before they got to the secure room. Plenty of time.

He unstrapped the crowbar he'd tied to his thigh and swung it, hard, against the glass; the shock made his bones rattle, but only the barest hint of a scuff appeared. He smashed it again, and then hooked the crowbar in the crevice between the glass tube and the little access door that could be used to remove the diamond, trying to pry the door open. No luck. He jammed the edge of the bar into the crack, looked up, and saw shadows moving.

Neal let go of the crowbar, turned tail, and ran like hell.

***

He can almost feel the pump of adrenaline, the breathless joy of pursuit, even lying still and quiet in the bed. Neal wouldn't play with the security guards as much as he'd like, but he'd play just enough to annoy Peter, to elicit that bark of "Neal! Cut the crap!" that would tell him it really was time to get out of there.

Neal knows he can lose a tail. Unlike the others, he wouldn't get the luxury of a ride home; he'd have to escape, blend in, and then take the subway. Still, that can be exciting too.

He wriggles his shoulders happily. He's enjoying this little story; as a kid he used to tell himself stories at night to get to sleep, and these days he'll go over cons in his head for the same reason. This isn't one he's messed with much, but making it about the people he knows, the people he's going to run a con with tomorrow, is infinitely fun. He can hear Peter's commanding tone when he asks for status reports; it's something he gets from Peter every day at work. He can hear Elizabeth's excitement, too, familiar from whenever she's asking them about a case.

He can also hear noise on the landing, suddenly, and he tenses. After a second, there's a gentle scrabble at his door and a soft whine. Neal sits up and grins in the dark.

"Hey, Satch," he whispers softly, opening the door to let the big lab slink into the room. Satchmo immediately beelines for the bed and hops up on it, curling up in the warm spot where Neal had been lying. Neal shoos him onto the blankets, gets a reproachful look from Satchmo, and slides under the covers, rolling onto his side. Satchmo curls up in the curve of Neal's legs and props his head on Neal's hip, exhaling happily. Neal rests one hand on his head, closing his eyes.

***

Neal didn't talk again, too busy running and then hiding, until he reached the subway. Just before descending, he paused.

"I'm clear," he said, and heard various cheers and exhalations of relief over the radio.

"Good work, Neal," Peter told him.

"I'm switching off. See you guys soon," Neal replied, and took his earbud out, tucking it in a pocket. He'd already left his mask and turtleneck in his pack, which he'd ditched in a dumpster. By morning it would be either on its way to the landfill or split amongst a couple of homeless guys, he was sure.

When he arrived, Elizabeth gave him a welcome-back hug, Diana punched him in the shoulder, and Peter sat back, grinning at him from the couch.

"Anything yet?" Neal asked. Peter shook his head. "Well, they probably have guards on the diamond. Bet they're calling the police."

"Yep, we had siren noise a few minutes ago," Peter said. Neal leaned over his shoulder to study the camera feeds from the vault hallway. All quiet.

"I'm disgusting and sore and I smell like subway," Neal said, leaning back. "I need a shower. I'm stealing yours, and then I'm stealing your guest bed."

"Thief," Elizabeth said affectionately.

"Yep, it's down time," Peter added. "Go home, everyone, get some rest. You've earned it."

***

If this were a different sort of fantasy, Neal would be in the middle of his shower when he'd hear the door open and Sara -- or Elizabeth, ooh, or Peter -- would slip into it with him. But this is a con fantasy, and Neal's lying in the Burke guest bed with their dog sleeping and drooling on him, so it feels a little inappropriate.

Neal sighs and redirects his attention to the con at hand.

***

Neal woke late the following morning; he guessed Peter and Elizabeth had let him sleep. When he came downstairs there was hot oatmeal, sausage, and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Neither Peter nor Elizabeth were watching the laptop, which meant they must have intel, but Neal was starving and so he didn't bother asking until he'd inhaled a bowl of oatmeal and a few mouthfuls of egg.

"So?" he asked, as Peter came in from the kitchen, carrying a plate in one hand and a notebook in the other. "Dish the dirt."

"Full report," Peter said, tossing the notebook down and sliding it across to him. "They put the Equinox in the vault around seven this morning. We have the vault code, a recording of both vocal passwords, and we know who carries each of two keycards used."

"Look at this," Elizabeth adds, pulling a photo printout from the notebook. "Their RFID cards open the vaults. The same ones that open the back door of the offices."

"Amateurs," Neal snorted. "They probably rotate the vault keycode daily, though."

"Well, we'll have enough tape to know, soon," Peter said.

"So, what next?" Elizabeth asked.

"Now, we wait," Peter answered, sipping his orange juice. "Either they'll call James Graham, or they'll call his boss to confirm his bona fides, or the news will get out and James Graham can call them."

"Last resort," Neal said, pointing a fork at him. "If Graham calls them, it looks suspicious."

"Hell, Neal, it looks a little suspicious anyway," Peter said. Neal reached out to the opposite end of the table, currently covered in books and schematics, and picked up an envelope.

"Graham's alibi," he said. "Receipt says he was having dinner with his lovely wife the evening of the theft, and afterwards they went to a nightclub, where he ran a tab on his credit card."

"You're a little too good at forging this stuff," Peter said, studying the contents of the envelope.

"Well, a boy has to make his way in the world somehow," Neal replied with a grin. "Are you ready to go back in as Graham?"

"I'm starting to like him," Peter replied. "He's kind of an asshole, but he means well."

"Freud would have a field day with you," Elizabeth told him.

"Freud had a field day with everyone he met," Peter answered easily. "I'm going to get some sleep, I have to drive Jones and Mozzie to the airport this afternoon. Your packages arrive?"

"Yep. There's one waiting for Mozzie in Osaka, post-restante, and Jones's is in the safe in a charming little _pensione_ in Florence. I hope his Italian is as good as he thinks it is."

"Jones'll do fine," Peter said. "These forgeries better be something else, Neal."

"They're perfect," Neal answered. "They'll pass any test you can think of and a few you've probably never heard of. Trust me, when we pull this off, Jones and Mozzie are going to have no trouble selling them."

Peter grunted, always the worrier.

"Go sleep," Elizabeth said, kissing him on the cheek. "We'll call you if anything happens."

***

Neal wishes _he_ could sleep. As entertaining as this all is, the minutes are ticking down.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter's patience in the days that followed, his serene placidity, was reassuring. There was no report of the attempted theft in the newspaper, probably by design; the video feeds showed that the Equinox remained in the vault, and when Elizabeth went to the museum to do a little recon, she reported back that there was a sign in the Equinox's display case that it had been temporarily removed from display -- no explanation or reasoning provided.

On the third day, Diana called. Peter put her on speakerphone.

"Dee Palmer, the Curator of the CPIM, just called Risa Hughes," she said, and Neal saw Peter smile. "She wanted to verify James Graham's employment with the FBI."

"In that case, a call to James can't be far behind," Peter said.

"How are Jones and Mozzie?"

"Mozzie says the food is good," Neal said. "Jones is seeing the sights. I think he's liking Florence."

"Nice for some," Diana groused.

"Next time we pull a hundred and twenty million dollar theft, Diana, I promise you can be the one to go to Florence," Peter said. "Be ready to roll, we're coming up fast on the next phase."

"You know me, boss," Diana answered.

"Yep, I do. Call you when I hear anything," Peter said, and hung up.

He did get a call from Dee Palmer that day, asking to meet in her office; Neal helped Peter dress, making sure he looked snappy, and then he and Elizabeth went shopping and to a late lunch while Peter met with the CPIM brass. Wearing a wire was much too dangerous; they'd just have to assume he was getting the job done until he called to let them know he was out.

"I spoke to Ms. Palmer," Peter said, when Neal answered the phone over dessert. "I told her I was sorry to hear about the real break-in, and I'd do her a pro-bono. Told her they should have a facsimile of the diamond made and put on display in its place."

"You give her the names of some guys who could do good copywork?" Neal asked, grinning at Elizabeth.

"An armored car is picking up the diamond tomorrow morning," Peter said. "It'll be out for a week while they make the copy, and then the copy and the original will come back to the museum together. Only the curator will know which is on display and which is in the vault."

"So, tomorrow night," Neal said.

"Day after tomorrow," Peter corrected.

"Day after tomorrow," Neal repeated. Elizabeth caught Neal's eye and made an "ok" symbol with her fingers. "Elizabeth's going to call her friend at the Times," he added.

"I think that's a great idea," Peter said, chuckling. "Where are you guys? I'm starving."

"Peter, we had a civilized lunch sitting down at a table, with water glasses and wine and everything," Neal said. "Make yourself happy, get a hot dog from some terrible food cart, we'll see you back at your place."

"Snob," Peter said.

"Later, Everyman," Neal answered, and hung up. Elizabeth was already calling her journalist friend, warning him to keep an ear on his police scanner; Neal had to get in touch with Diana and Sara, to let them know he was going back in.

"You ready for this?" he asked Elizabeth, as they paid the bill and walked out of the restaurant.

"Bring it on," Elizabeth said with a grin.

***

Outside of the bedroom, there's more noise; footsteps, then the flush of a toilet. Neal smiles. Just barely, he can hear Mozzie's snores through the floorboards. He listens for the sound of Peter and Elizabeth's bedroom door closing, but it doesn't come; instead the footsteps edge along the stairs, and Neal closes his eyes, letting his face relax, just before he hears his own door open. Through closed lids he can see a little light coming in from the hallway.

He hears Peter's low laugh. It must be a little funny, seeing Satchmo curled up with him on the bed.

"Satchmo," Peter calls softly. "Satch, c'mere buddy."

Satchmo, stalwart, doesn't move. Peter sighs, and a second later the door closes.

"Good dog," Neal murmurs, rubbing Satchmo's ears.

***

They'd put a guard on the vault, up until the morning that two heavily armed men came to collect the Equinox in an armored car. After that, of course, there was no point; the target of the theft was gone, and the thief wouldn't be able to get into the vault, even if he had somehow made it into the secure room with the Equinox's display.

Mozzie was in Japan, so it was Diana's turn at the wheel the evening they went back in. Neal could have taken her inside with him, but Elizabeth was shorter, and already knew what to do.

The heist did not go as planned.

Neal had swung by the museum right at closing, to meet with the curator and her assistant and assure them both, on Mr. Graham's behalf, that the diamond was secure and under heavy guard. This was probably the truth; Peter had hooked them up with a genuine reproductionist, someone not even in on the game, to create a fake Equinox and store the real one securely. Neal had asked for a tour of the offices and a look at the vault, like a hungry kid who loved his job, and slyly lifted their ID cards as they left. He'd counted on them not noticing until the following morning, but apparently Palmer, at least, had noticed and called security to have her RFID changed. When he and Elizabeth tried to card in with Palmer's card, the door remained steadfastly locked.

"Sara, we have a problem," Neal said, as they carefully crept through the blind spots to the server room. "Palmer's card's been reprogrammed. The assistant's card still works, and I have the card emulator, but it could take hours to randomize to her new number. Hell, it could take days."

"The RFID codes on the keycards, read them off to me," Sara said, and Neal stopped, leaning in the doorway while Elizabeth ducked into the server room.

"Two star four, nine two nine eight six," Neal read. "That's Palmer's."

"And her assistant?"

"Two star four, nine three zero one two," Neal said.

"Okay, go back out to the door and try to get in again. Start the emulator at two star four, nine three zero one three," Sara said. "If they go in ascending order -- "

"Gotcha," Neal said. "Elizabeth, are you okay here alone?"

"I'm good," Elizabeth said. Neal took a second to guiltily, slyly appreciate her ass sticking up from under the server cage, and went slowly, carefully back to the door, cards in hand.

He started the emulator and let it run in the door, trying each number, while he listened to Elizabeth go through the same motions as last time -- plugging in the feed to Peter's computer, checking with Peter to make sure it was live. Just as she was about to plug in the patch that would freeze the security monitors, the door beeped. Neal looked down at the RFID emulator.

"Two star four, nine three five one five," he breathed. "Sara, you got that?"

"Got it," Sara said. "Keep that number in the emulator."

"Uh, El?" Peter said, as Neal crept carefully back to the server room.

"Hon?" Elizabeth asked. "Are you seeing the cameras freeze?"

"No, I'm not," Peter said, sounding worried. "I just saw part of Neal's hand in one of the security monitors."

"Shit," Neal breathed, freezing, waiting for an alarm to go.

"You want me to create a diversion?" Diana asked.

"Not yet," Peter said. "I'm not seeing any movement along the corridors. I don't think security caught it."

"Everything that can go wrong will," Neal murmured.

"Sorry, Neal, I didn't copy," Peter said.

"Nothing. Old con cliché," Neal replied.

"They must have figured out how we froze the cameras," Sara said. Neal could hear frantic typing in the background. "Guys, I don't know if we can disable the security cameras."

"They're all over the vault," Neal said. "If we can't disable them, we're gonna have to scrap this and come back in some other night."

"They'll know we've been back," Peter said. "A couple hundred failed RFID attempts does draw attention."

"How fast can you get the vault open?" Sara asked.

"Thirty seconds," Neal answered. "I can be in and out in under a minute, but it'll take another two minutes to get out of here, and there's Elizabeth to think about."

"Four minutes thirty is a long time to keep the guards away from the monitors," Diana said.

Neal paused. "I have an idea," he said. "We can leave the feed to Peter's laptop in the computer this time, right? It won't be traceable back to us?"

"Sure," Sara said. "Are there prints on it?"

"Nope. Only been handled with gloves," Elizabeth answered.

"Then yes."

"Okay," Neal said. "I'm going to re-create last week's disturbance."

"Neal, no," Peter said. "We'll find another -- "

"Nuh uh," Neal interrupted. "As soon as I give the signal that the guards are in pursuit, Elizabeth can go down to the vault and get it done."

Elizabeth was already emerging from under the servers. Neal passed her his tools -- the RFID emulator and the assistant's ID card, the miniature digital recorder, and the diamond blade. He fitted the head mount with the mini cam on it to her forehead and adjusted the strap.

"I'll pull a bolt and hide like last time, Elizabeth gets out clean with the take," Neal continued. "They'll have to call the cops, it'll be beautiful. It's just what we wanted, Peter."

"Neal, you can't risk yourself again -- _Elizabeth_ ," Peter said. "You're not supposed to -- "

"It's okay, sweetie," Elizabeth said. Neal grinned at her. "I'm wearing a face mask, I'll be fine."

"Peter, come on. We can't have come this far to let a couple of security cameras and some rent-a-cops stop us," Neal said urgently.

They waited in silence, all of them, the only noise down the line Peter's breathing and the click of Sara's keyboard.

"Okay, do it," Peter said. "If you get my wife arrested, Neal, I swear to God -- "

"Silence on the line," Neal ordered, and even Peter fell quiet.

***

Neal enjoys being the hero, the center of attention. Hell, if he'd thought about it, he'd probably have arranged it this way in the first place.

He calms himself, because Satchmo snuffles and whines every time he tenses up, and instead thinks about Elizabeth, steady-handed, cool-headed.

***

When Neal opened the door between the administrative offices and the museum, he jumped as far as he could into the room, rolling and coming up to his feet in an instant. They'd see it on the monitors as well as hear the alarm; he hid in the shadows and waited until he saw two guards before he started running.

Dodging, running, distracting, that was all instinct; Neal had been chased by some of the best cops in the world, including Peter Burke, and he knew how to keep two men busy. He thought instead about Elizabeth, taking his marks from her; she was at the vault, she said, she was fitting the RFID cards into place, entering the digital code on the vault's keypad. He heard the passwords being spoken, played from the digital voice-recorder, and then the pop and hiss of the vault opening.

"I'm in," she said, as Neal watched security run right past the doorway to the room he was in. He darted out, whistled, and ran on. "Found the Eagle. I'm cutting the case now."

"Fast as you can," Neal said, dodging around a display case and narrowly missing getting Tased. He really hated Tasers.

"Finished cutting. I have the Eagle," Elizabeth said. Neal pictured her -- standing there in the darkened vault, surrounded by priceless treasures of American history, holding a small gold object up to the light.

"Get out, get out, get out," Peter said breathlessly.

"I'm going," Elizabeth said, and Neal could hear her running. "Neal, sweetie?"

"Cue me when you're out the door," Neal said.

"I'm out," Elizabeth gasped, still running. Neal turned to make for the east entrance --

And found two armed guards on it, probably new security measures since the last theft. He ducked quickly around a wall, but the other two guards would be here soon.

The ground-floor windows of the museum had been boarded over long before. From the outside, each window was a beautiful work of stained glass, lit by a little lamp behind it; from the inside, all you could see of where they'd been were faux stones over panels blocking access.

The upper floor of the museum, on the other hand...

"Peter, how pissed are you going to be at me if I jump out a second story window?" Neal asked, carefully edging his way around the grand staircase and slithering up it on all fours, while the guards ran around below him.

"Very, very pissed," Peter replied.

"You've got eyes, what's going on?"

"Armed guards are helping search. Guard one is with them. Guard two's doubling back for the monitors," Peter said breathlessly. Neal reached the second floor and looked around. "Police scanner says they're dispatching cars, they know something's going on. Neal, you have about two minutes before you're in serious trouble."

There was a tapestry hanging on one wall, an ugly thing of mediocre quality at best. Neal reached for it, tugged it down, and took a quick glance at the plate next to it. It had been embroidered with scenes of The American Civil War.

"Sorry, Lincoln," he said, and wrapped himself up in it.

"Neal, what are you -- NEAL!" Peter yelled, as Neal covered his face with the rough fabric and took a running leap through the window. As soon as he was through, he let the tapestry go, clinging to the corners. The drag would do something, if not much.

The fall seemed to take forever; Neal wrestled with the stomach-dropping vertigo, felt every fiber of the cloth under his fingers, heard every second of Peter's angry _No!_ over the radio.

He landed, as he'd planned, in the decorative shrubbery under the window.

"Unh, that's gonna hurt in the morning," he groaned, crawling out of the tapestry and over the edge of a railing. He collapsed on the grass, struggling to get his breath back.

"They heard the glass, they're heading for the east exit. Diana, that diversion -- " Peter started.

"Already on it," Diana said.

"Keep me in the loop," Neal mumbled, staggering to his feet.

"Diana's on the east exit, blocking their progress," Peter said, and Neal could hear Diana talking fast, telling the cops she was worried, she'd seen someone fall out a window. "She's slowing them down but Neal, you gotta run."

"Trying," Neal gasped, his lungs still uncooperative. He stumbled onto the pavement, dropped briefly to his knees, got up and took off again.

"They're past Diana. Neal, where are you?"

"Around the corner, heading west," Neal said. His vision was greying out. "Peter -- "

"The SUV's in a camera blind spot a block and a half west. Elizabeth, Sara, duck your heads and pop the trunk," Peter ordered. Neal stumbled as he ran, but he managed to stay upright; he kept trying to scan the street for witnesses, but luck seemed to be on his side. When he saw the SUV sitting there, rear hatch open, he nearly cried in relief. He tumbled into it and pulled it shut after him and lay there in the tiny crawlspace between trunk door and backseat, panting.

"Sweetie, are you -- "

"Heads down!" Peter barked, as Elizabeth peered over the edge of the seat at him. "Diana, what's your location?"

"They went north, I'm still here," Diana said.

"Can you get away without looking like you're running?"

"No problem, boss," Diana said. "I'm on radio silence until I reach the car."

"Okay, this is what we're doing," Peter said. "Elizabeth and Sara, keep your heads down. Neal, are you okay?"

"Fine," Neal gasped. "Breathless."

"Keep trying. Diana, when you get to the car, start it up and drive slowly, casually away. We need any traffic cams to make it seem like you're the only one in the car. You're just a passing witness," Peter said. His voice was soothing, calming. Neal felt like he could breathe again. "I want you over the bridge from Manhattan before any of you even think about getting up, understood?"

"Not a problem," Neal murmured. There was blood running down his arm; he held it up a little and picked a small shard of glass out of it, pressing his hand over the cut to stop it bleeding.

He heard Diana return and open the car door; after a second the engine fired up, and Neal felt movement.

"Neal, how you doing back there?" Peter asked.

"Better," Neal said. "Couple of cuts and bruises, but I'll be okay."

"You are a crazy son of a bitch."

"That's what makes it fun," Neal answered. "Elizabeth, how's our baby look?"

"Beautiful," Elizabeth said. "It's gorgeous, Neal. I'd pay ten million for it myself."

"Couple of months, you'd even be able to afford that price tag," Diana put in.

A thought struck Neal as funny, and he laughed, high and nervous.

"Neal?" Peter asked over the radio.

"I was just thinking," Neal said. "It's too bad we can't steal the Equinox too. I know, I know I said gems weren't worth it, and it'd be a sin to cut up the Equinox, but still...it's awfully shiny."

"A nice, shiny MacGuffin," Peter reminded him.

"You learn fast, young apprentice," Neal said, grinning wide and a little sneaky in the dark. "Hey, can I at least get out of the trunk? I'm getting a cramp back here."

"Not until we're out of Manhattan," Diana said.

***

It occurs to Neal that he probably shouldn't have con fantasies where everything goes wrong and he ends up jumping out a second-story window into some shrubbery. On the other hand, it's a good backup plan if he says so himself (and he does, because nobody else will).

Plus, it's an adventure. And Neal does love adventure.

***

When they finally reached home base, Diana dropped Elizabeth and Sara off in the alley, then sedately parked the SUV in front of the house and helped Neal up the steps to the front door. Peter was waiting inside, a storm on his face.

"You are getting your ass kicked," Peter informed Neal, who had a gauze pad from the car's first-aid kit pressed to his temple. "As soon as you're not falling apart, I'm kicking your ass."

"I'll give you a rain check," Neal said, easing himself onto the couch and leaning back, groaning. "I think I bruised a couple of ribs."

"I'll get the first-aid kit," Peter told them, bounding up the stairs while Diana helped Neal struggle carefully out of his shirt. There were little shards of glass stuck in it; when he was free, she bundled it up carefully and stuffed it in a paper bag retrieved from the kitchen. Elizabeth came in through the back door just as Peter was returning.

"Oh, Neal," she said, frowning, coming to sit next to him. He gave her a brilliant smile. Peter clicked on a flashlight and shone it in Neal's eyes, around his hair, down the skin of his face and arms, looking for glass that might still be there.

"We're going to have to brush it out," he said, plucking a smallish shard out of Neal's hair. He glanced at Elizabeth. "Where's Sara?"

"Loaded up her equipment and went home," Elizabeth said. "She'll courier us a DVD with the video of the heist."

Peter leaned over and kissed her, then returned his attention to Neal. Once they'd cleaned the glass out of his hair and treated the cuts -- Peter also insisted on strapping Neal's ribs, and he did feel better after that -- they moved to the dining room table, and Peter poured the wine.

"To ingenuity," Neal said, offering a toast. Peter gave him a dirty look. "Fine. To success, even at a price."

"Hear hear," Diana said, and they toasted.

"Now," Peter told his wife, "let's see it."

Elizabeth drew a small, plain brown velvet bag out of her pocket and laid it on the table. Neal offered Peter a pair of white cotton gloves.

Peter pulled the gloves on and opened the bag. Inside, burnished gold gleamed in the low lamplight. Peter took it out carefully, holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

"A 1933 Double Eagle," Peter said, voice low and almost awestruck. He spun it so he could study the other side.

"A monetized 1933 Double Eagle," Neal reminded him. "The most expensive twenty bucks in the world."

The coin was large, nearly an inch and a half in diameter. It was almost pure gold, just ten percent copper; enough to give it a reddish tinge, highlighting the figures stamped in the metal. On one side, Lady Liberty stood boldly, a torch in one hand and an olive branch in the other. One of her legs was bent, propped on a stone, and the drape of her dress revealed her thigh, thick and strong. Behind her was a sunburst, and the word _LIBERTY_. On the flip side, an eagle in profile soared over the same sunburst; it was stamped _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ , below that _TWENTY DOLLARS_ , and below that, molded to the curve of the rising sun, _IN GOD WE TRUST._

Neal knew every inch, every flaw, every line of it; he had, after all, carved the positive from which they'd cast molds for the forgeries. The original coins had been carved by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, who had sculpted the Shaw memorial, the bronze of Diana the huntress at the Met, the stern and enormous statue of Lincoln at the conservatory in Chicago.

"Hey there, Gus," Neal said softly. Peter looked beyond the coin, to Neal, and gave him a quiet smile.

"What do we do with you?" Diana asked Lady Liberty. She laughed a little. "We never really planned what to do with the original, did we?"

"Didn't seem important," Peter said, eyes still on Neal. He put the coin on top of the bag and passed it carefully to Neal. "Got any ideas, hot shot?"

"One or two," Neal said, setting it down. He stood up -- ow, he was already hurting -- and went to his overnight bag, sitting unobtrusively near the door. "I got you a present."

He came back and set it in front of Elizabeth, taking Peter's gloves and pulling them on. The box was small, the size of a watch case, with a bow on top; inside, once Elizabeth opened it, a circle of glass outlined in gold lay on the velvet, with black ribbons attached to each side. Neal picked it up and opened the clasp, then took the coin and carefully slotted it in between the two thin sheets of protective glass. He closed it and offered it to Peter, who turned and tied the ribbons around Elizabeth's neck.

"For special occasions only," Neal said with a smile. Elizabeth picked up the key that had also been lying on the velvet, looking at Neal with a mixture of brilliant joy and curiosity. "That's a safety-deposit box key to an untraceable box in another name. Keep it there when you're not wearing it."

"It suits you," Peter said, voice low and rough. Elizabeth touched the pendant at her throat, closing her eyes.

***

Neal knows the history of the 1933 Double Eagle like he knows fairy tales and urban legends. In '33, Roosevelt outlawed the gold standard; coins weren't made of what they were worth anymore, but simply signified that worth. The Double Eagle was the last gold coin struck. Before it was even issued to the public, almost all five hundred thousand of them were melted down. Twenty or thirty were stolen, and they pop up every now and then.

The Mint Cashier at the time was a corruptible man; he did a back-door deal with a local jeweler, and two of the coins were issued as legal tender. One disappeared, but the other monetized Double Eagle was recovered and gifted by the government to the Cultural Preservation Institute. A Double Eagle could fetch seven million dollars at auction, and recently had. A _monetized_ Double Eagle, even a stolen one...

Neal knows too that coin collectors are freaks. A collector just wants the coin, and doesn't care if no one else ever sees it. Twelve counterfeit Double Eagles, carved and cast by his own hand, would be overseas, waiting to be sold; with footage of the theft to prove the coin's authenticity, Jones and Mozzie would have no trouble asking for, or getting, ten million a coin. The footage is also insurance -- even if the collector found out their coin was a fake, the video would prove the collector knew it was stolen. Nobody would talk.

It's the perfect con. It's a _Lustig_. Peter would remind him that Victor Lustig died in Alcatraz, but the con man led a hell of a life first, and he sold the Eiffel Tower -- twice.

Neal is tired. His head feels thick, and sleep's not far away. He doesn't struggle against it, just lets it wash over him slowly. He feels satisfied, both with the con they've pulled in his imagination, and the con they'll pull tomorrow, against Bilal and Larssen.

He tries to calculate precisely what the take from the heist would be. Twelve gold Double Eagles sold at ten million apiece, a hundred and twenty million all told; minus ten percent for laundering, that's twelve mil, leaving 108 million. Divided seven ways is fifteen million, four hundred and...twenty eight thousand, five...hundred and seventy one dollars...and forty two cents...

His own laughter is the last thing he remembers before he slips into sleep.

***

Peter returns from capturing Larssen on a horse, and that's exciting enough; Neal's high off the con when Peter passes off the gun to Diana and remarks, shaking his hand out, "Larssen's got a hard face."

"Aw, it felt good though, didn't it?" Diana asks. Neal can see in her face that she's enjoying herself.

"Why yes, it did," Peter agrees.

Neal can't help himself. He knows there's no chance, but it never hurts to ask, and anyway it's part of his cheeky con-artist charm. "Before you get your badge back," he says, "there's a seven-man con that I've been meaning to -- "

"No," Peter interrupts, tolerant and amused. "The Burke's Seven is hereby disbanded."

Perhaps some other time. A guy can dream, anyway.


	3. Story Notes

**Neal** : Before you get your badge back, there's a seven-man con that I've been meaning to --  
 **Peter** : No. The Burke's Seven is hereby disbanded.

As soon as the words were out of Neal's mouth, I started thinking about it. What kind of heist requires seven people?

The problem is that if you need seven people, you have to be willing to split the take seven ways. We've seen Neal knock over a bank single-handedly; most art isn't well-protected enough to need seven people, and even if it were, most art isn't worth more than a couple million dollars on the black market, which is not a lot to split seven ways. Gems are usually worth even less than art; they might need seven people, but they wouldn't get you more than a million, if that, and they're hard to sell, and these days reasonably easy to trace. You could rob multiple banks at once and thereby mess with the currency system somehow, turning it to a later bigger financial advantage, but that borders on terrorism, and I think Neal would find it too number-y. You could rob a casino but, well, **[it's been done.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-ApgblbT0A)**

I formulated a combination land speculation, phishing, and **[mine-salting](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salting_%28confidence_trick%29)** con that required four people, but even then the take was only a couple of million stolen out of someone's bank account, and the whole thing was clumsy.

Incidentally, yes, I did worry about just how much knowledge I have of these things and how much thought I was putting into it.

I kept coming back around to gems, and why someone would go after them. What if, I thought, the gem took seven people to steal, but wasn't the ultimate goal of the con? What if there was information you could get from the gem theft that would lead to bigger fish? You could invent a museum where the circumstances were right for that; my invention was the Cultural Preservation Institute Museum, which doesn't actually exist (though I think the architectural setup is pretty neat). I imagine it as one of those terribly stuffy "we arbitrate what is valued in American culture" type places that is mired in its own weird hegemonic history and never recognises valid cultural contributions until twenty years after everyone else has.

I "installed" two objects in the museum: a vault containing something of great value, and the Equinox. The Equinox doesn't exist either; **[carbonados](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbonado)** or "black diamonds" aren't found in the United States (although if, as some scientists believe, the carbonado form of diamond comes from asteroid strikes with Earth, it could be that they do exist and simply haven't been discovered yet). The largest diamond ever found in the US is the forty-carat **[Uncle Sam](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uncle_Sam_%28diamond%29)** , which was eventually faceted into a fairly hideous 12 carat emerald cut. I feel there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

Anyway, what if you tried to steal the diamond in order to get access to the vault? And what was in the vault that was so valuable?

I'd been reading lately about the 1933 Double Eagle, one of the most valuable coins in existence. There's something intrinsically magical, to me, about coins; stealing a Double Eagle would be good fun. The story of the 1933 Double Eagle coin that I present here is **[mostly true](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1933_Double_Eagle)** , though I've bent it a bit. The only legal (but still non-monetized) Double Eagles in existence are two that were given to the Numismatic Society; the rest were stolen or "somehow" made it into circulation, and are now either in custody of the government or in the hands of private citizens who are fighting to keep them from being confiscated.

Selling a Double Eagle would be difficult, though, and still only get you ten million or so. So how do we sell and resell it? Well, a combination of Neal's multiple-fakes con from Copycat Caffrey and a trick old Lustig pulled. **[Victor Lustig](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Lustig)** is a legendary con man, who did indeed **[sell the Eiffel Tower twice](http://www.buzzle.com/editorials/2-20-2004-50787.asp)** , making use of the first buyer's humiliation and fear of being caught to keep the sale quiet while he pitched it a second time, a trick now informally known as "A Lustig". (He died in Alcatraz; under "occupation", on his death certificate, the prison officials listed "Apprentice Salesman".)

I had the heist in place; to make it fun, I messed up the second heist, mostly using what I know about RFID keycards. These are plastic cards the size of a credit card, with a circuit inside them that interacts with a reader and transmits a serial number. The reader connects the serial number to an individual in a database and either allows or disallows access. They're very popular for secure buildings; we use them in my building, and I've been doing a lot of work with them lately because of that. An RFID emulator is, indeed, **[not at all hard to build](http://www.instructables.com/id/A-Universal-RFID-Key/)**. (I wouldn't need one; I have access to every card in the system and can change RFIDs at will. It's scary how much power they give the receptionist.)

Because it was complicated and twisty, the first thing I did was write a Proof Of Concept, a conversation between Neal and Peter where Neal outlines the con rather than anyone acting it out. It was amusing enough, but unsatisfying; lots of talking heads. Still, I thought I'd include it here, so you could see the original. I tried to keep the spirit of it as I modulated it into the new piece -- Neal curled up with Satchmo, Neal's casual and ill-hidden attraction to Elizabeth in skintight black, certain turns of phrase and sentiments. So you've read Version Two, which is like the fireworks-and-roses version; here's Version One, which is a little more...Socratic.

***

"So," Peter said, sitting down in the living-room chair, stretching his legs out and leaning back. "Tell me about your seven-man con."

Neal, who was curled up with Satchmo on the sofa and looking overly pleased with himself, glanced up. "I thought you didn't want to hear it."

"I don't want to pull it. I wouldn't mind getting inside that twisty brain of yours," Peter replied.

"You're interested," Neal said, laughing.

"For days I've been thinking, who needs seven people for a con? Outside of Ocean's Eleven, it just seems like bunk," Peter said.

"Well, yeah, mostly it would be. If you've got a seven man team there's plenty you can do, but most of the time at least two of them are going to be window-dressing," Neal admitted. "I can steal a painting with one skilled accomplice. Gems aren't worth it for splitting seven ways. You've seen me knock over a bank solo. Yeah, to con a casino maybe you'd need more, but Ocean's Eleven is kind of a hack job, professionally speaking. I mean, it's all drama, y'know, it's a good movie but it's not very realistic. I bet I could do it with nine."

"So," Peter reminded him, "seven-man con. What's the story?"

"Are you familiar with the phrase _can't go to jail for what you're thinking_?" Neal asked.

"Come on, Neal. I'm not going to arrest you for an imaginary crime."

"Good to know," Neal said placidly. "Just covering my bases. Besides, if I tell you about it, I can't ever pull it."

"Would that be such a shame?"

Neal shot him a smile. "Maybe. Fine. If I can't do it, I can brag about it," he said, untangling his legs from Satchmo and swinging them around, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees. "Initially it's just a heist."

"What's the take?"

"For the first heist? The Equinox," Neal said.

"The biggest diamond ever found in American soil," Peter breathed.

"More than that, it's a carbonado," Neal said. "A perfect oval-cut about yea big," he said, holding up his thumb and pointing to the last knuckle of it. "Forty-one carats. Deep black hue. Ever seen it?"

Peter nodded. "It's in the Cultural Preservation Institute Museum. Right here in New York. I thought you said gems weren't worth it," he added.

"Oh, they're not," Neal answered. "The Equinox is the MacGuffin."

"Alfred Hitchcock," Peter said.

"Very good, young apprentice," Neal smiled at him, wide and sneaky.

"So what's the real angle?"

"Patience," Neal answered. "You can't move the Equinox, it's too visible. Gem collectors want to show off their loot, not stash it away. You could cut it, but you wouldn't get as much. And anyway, destroying the Equinox would be a sin."

"So, what, steal and ransom?" Peter said.

"You're thinking too linear. You don't steal the Equinox, you just make people think you're going to. You need two people to get into the Institute and three to _go_ in. One of them is camera-bait. He's the shiny thing people want to see. He goes in and cases the Equinox. Meanwhile, his two companions are setting cameras and bugs around the vault doors, staying in the blind spots, guided by someone back at home base. Once they're clear, Camera Bait goes for the Equinox and sets off the alarms. He books it without the diamond."

"That's six people."

"Wheelman," Neal reminded him.

"Fine, seven. So far it sounds boring," Peter said.

"It's not boring when you're the guy being chased out of the CPI Museum," Neal retorted.

"I get it, you're the bait. Then what?"

"The CPI knows someone's after the Equinox. They move it into the vault. In order to do that -- "

"They have to open the vault," Peter finished. "Which you now have eyes and ears on."

"Got it in one. The job's still too hot while the Equinox is in the vault, so you send in one of your backstage men, someone they don't know, to convince them the Equinox should be removed to a more secure secret location and duplicated, so that a fake can be put on display. Once the Equinox is clear, there's no reason for tight security on the vault. You've got the codes, you've got the passwords -- all you need is a team of two to go back in."

"What's in the vault?" Peter asked.

"Lots of things. You don't need to take much, though. Most of it's too heavy or bulky, or worth more as a historical artifact than as an actual cash commodity."

"So what would you take?"

Neal held up his hands, thumbs and forefingers rounded, making a circle between his palms.

"Do you know what a 1933 Double Eagle is?" he asked. Peter shook his head. "It's a twenty-dollar gold coin."

"I got twenty bucks in my wallet right now," Peter said. "It'd just about buy lunch tomorrow."

"I'll hold you to that," Neal replied. "This one is special. In 1933, Roosevelt outlawed the circulation of gold coins. The 1933 Double Eagle is a gold coin, but it was struck after the Executive Order was made, so most of them were melted down. Two of them, presented to the National Numismatic Society, were supposed to be the only two in existence."

"I'm guessing that's not the case," Peter said.

"Some enterprising person interested in preserving the numismatic arts may have taken a few coins out of the run before they were melted down," Neal said. "About twenty have been recovered. Nobody knows for sure how many are still out there, but they're rare. Here's the trick: only two of the coins were legally issued as money, through a back-door scheme between the Mint Cashier and a local jeweler. They're legal tender. Even the coins the Numismatic Society has aren't legal tender."

"So?" Peter said.

"One of two monetized 1933 Double Eagles in existence is in that vault," Neal continued, peering through the circle of his fingers at Peter. "A non-monetized Double Eagle is worth about eight million dollars, or was in 2002 when the last one went up for auction. A monetized Double Eagle, with provenance -- which in this case means video footage of the theft -- could get ten mil easy on the black market." He settled back, spreading his hands. "Coin collectors are freaks. They don't care if anyone else ever sees the coin. It's a completism thing. They just want to know they have it."

"Know your mark?" Peter asked.

"Know your buyer. Here's where it gets sexy," Neal said. "Remember the copycats we arrested?"

Peter groaned. "You forge a handful of Double Eagles -- "

" -- and send them overseas before the coin is stolen. If you have two agents from the Equinox job, say the wheelman and one of the break-in guys, you send them abroad with six Double Eagles each. Once word gets out, they go on the sell," Neal said. "Email them the video, they bundle it with each coin as provenance. A hundred and twenty million dollars, give or take. Split seven ways, that's a little more than seventeen mil each. You could buy the Yankees, Peter."

"I think the IRS might question an FBI agent buying the Yankees," Peter said drily.

Neal shrugged. "You got seventeen million dollars, you can afford to live somewhere without extradition."

"The Yankees are worth one point three billion dollars."

"For a _baseball team?_ " Neal asked, mocking outrage.

"I just report the news," Peter told him solemnly.

"Peter, tell me honestly," Neal said. "Are they even any good?"

Peter held up his hand, palm flat, and wiggled it.

"Whatever, you can buy a skybox," Neal said.

"I like the bleachers."

Neal sighed. "The point is, each of those collectors has a provenance. Even if they find out the coin is fake, they've knowingly received stolen property. They're accessories to grand theft, smuggling, and fraud. Nobody's going to talk."

"That's a Lustig," Peter said. Neal widened his eyes.

" _Very_ good," he said. "Personal hero of mine."

"Victor Lustig died in Alcatraz," Peter pointed out.

"Yeah, but he had a hell of a time first," Neal grinned.

"So let's see," Peter said, ticking the count off on his fingers. "Wheelman. Two break-in agents. Two technology whizzes to plant the bugs. Camera Bait. Home Base."

"Mozzie, Jones and Elizabeth, Diana and Sara, me, and you," Neal said.

"How come I'm home base?"

"Your commanding presence and air of authority," Neal said, and Peter rolled his eyes. "Listen, I never liked group work in school. You're good at it. If we pulled this, you'd be calling the shots. Then we send Mozzie and Jones off to Europe, and you go in as the guy who convinces them to ditch the Equinox out of the vault. I go in to get the coin with Elizabeth -- Diana is wheelman this time, and Sara needs to run the technology -- "

"You're taking my wife on a catburglary expedition."

"Imaginary," Neal said. "Don't deny me my rich fantasy life, Peter. Think of Elizabeth in black skintight..." Neal trailed off. Peter was glaring. "Not that I have ever done that," he said hastily. Peter scowled.

"You know the hitch in this plan," Peter said.

"Five of the seven people involved are law abiding citizens," Neal sighed. Peter leaned over and tapped him on the nose. "Still. It could work."

"Keep it theoretical, Lustig," Peter said. Neal snorted. "What would you do with seventeen million dollars, anyway?"

Neal shrugged. "Put it in a Swiss bank and forget about it. It's not about the money, for me. It's the pageant. It's the power."

"If you had a choice between pulling this con and saving Lindsey Gless's life, which would you choose?" Peter asked.

Neal frowned at him. "Is this a trick question?"

"Nope. Con, cash, and power, against Lindsey Gless's life."

"Lindsey," Neal said. "Of course. Why would you even..." he trailed off, eyes unfocusing. "Great. Peter Burke Makes A Point."

"This is better power," Peter said.

They sat in silence for a moment, until Neal shook his head.

"Yeah, but it'd be fun though," he said. "Admit it. It'd be fun."

"Black skintight catburglary suit, huh?" Peter asked. Neal shrugged. "Okay. Maybe it's fun in the abstract."

"I'm fond of abstract."

"I noticed," Peter drawled. "Make sure that fantasy life of yours stays a fantasy."

Neal smiled. "Tip of the iceberg, Peter. No Titanic jokes, I promise," he added, holding up his hands innocently.

"I shudder to think," Peter told him. "I'm going to bed. Couch is yours if you want it."

"Think it over!" Neal called after him, as Peter climbed the stairs. "Seventeen million!"

"I like the bleachers!" Peter yelled back, and Neal laughed.


End file.
